Free The Skeleton Garden by Marty Wingate Page B

stood five feet deep in the pit and spread her arms in presentation. “Have you come to view our find?”
    Christopher scanned the assortment of metal pieces, bits of the control panel, and the tail—by far the largest piece and still sticking out of the ground. “This is amazing,” he said. “Do you think Harry and Vernona knew about it?”
    Simon laughed. “Harry would only want to know if you find a Roman chariot in the bottom.”
    “How did you hear?” Pru asked and used the momentary break in action to take out her hair clip, secure several loose bits, and reclip.
    “Kitty rang,” Christopher said, lifting his eyebrows. Kitty was wont to ring him at the drop of a hat. “ ‘There’s a bit of history being unearthed in your garden,’ she said.”
    “We thought we’d keep excavating, see how much of the plane is left,” Pru said. “I can see why Mr. Wilson loves a dig—it’s exciting not knowing what you might turn up.” At the next spadeful she said, “Simon, look. There’s a different kind of gravel mixed in here—it’s a lighter color.” She dumped and scooped more, letting Simon and Christopher sift through the material. “And larger rocks, too—oh, that’s an odd one.” She nodded to the stone Christopher held up—a light color and round, but flat on two sides and with small curved extensions.
    “Pru,” Christopher said, holding his hand out, “why don’t you come out for a bit.”
    “I’m not tired,” she said. “I’m sure I’ll feel it later, but for now”—she felt something large in the next load. “Oof.” As she lifted her spade, excess soil and gravel cascaded off the edges, and she took a closer look, only to find something looking back: two hollow eye sockets and a set of snaggly yellow teeth grinning at her from an ivory skull.
    In an instant, she dropped the spade, grabbed Christopher’s outstretched hand, and scrambled out. They all stood transfixed, staring at the skull. It lay on its side at the bottom of the pit, but still managed to keep one eye on Pru, who couldn’t catch her breath. No one spoke, until Christopher, with one arm around her, pulled out his mobile.
    “Martin, are you at the station? You’d better come out to Greenoak. And bring forensics with you.”

I want you to keep clear of that Len Wheeler. It’s as if when he was injured in Norway at the beginning of the war, it injured his mind, too. He’s not one to be kind, not even to his family.
    —Letter from Ratley Airfield

Chapter 10
    The parterre lawn changed into circus grounds, complete with an enormous white marquee. The tent’s doorway flapped in the stiff wind that swept up from the southwest, and an icy rain fell sideways, landing like little needles in everyone’s faces until they all moved under cover. Pru thought the whole of Hampshire was turning out for the afternoon. It began with DS Martin Chatters, a couple of uniforms, and the forensics team—all two of them—from the Romsey station. They dug up the ring of boxwood, and carefully laid the small shrubs on the canvas tarp Simon provided. He and Orlando dragged them out of the way and covered their roots.
    After that, more uniforms arrived, along with a police photographer, who recorded the scene in an official capacity, although others—even Kitty—had already snapped dozens of shots with their mobile phones. Pru’s phone remained indoors; she had no desire to document each human bone sifted out of the pit. She would’ve remained in the house with her phone except that Martin asked her to stay and help them go through the morning, step-by-step.
    Jemima had left along with Sonia, and the girl’s departure seemed to set Orlando free from his immobilized state. Now he couldn’t hold still. He darted around the edge of the pit, getting in everyone’s way and gazing longingly at all the mobile phones about him. At last, Christopher assigned him the task of carrying equipment for the police—paper overalls and